


Prey Animals

by PhenixFleur



Series: Predation [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster Falls, Dark, Dehumanization, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hunter AU, Hunter Bill, Impending Nervous Breakdowns, Let's be honest this asshole squirrel has it coming, No seriously this is just going downhill at an exponential rate, Physical Abuse, Predator - Prey Relationships, Violence, oh hey look another fic where I drive Dipper insane, teenage!Deerper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are two kinds of creatures in this world, kid. Predators, monsters, those that cause fear, and the prey that cower beneath them. Guess which one you are." An emotionally weary Dipper learns about the natural order of predators and prey and begins to lose hold of his sanity in the process. Monster Falls/Hunter AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey Animals

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. It's only gonna get worse from here on out. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

As humiliating as feigned compliance was, Dipper had to admit that it was definitely one of his better decisions since being hauled off into the woods that fateful day so long ago.

Granted, he hated every moment of it, and it left him hating himself on a near-constant basis, but it was far preferable to being the hunter’s punching bag. Prior to breaking his hindleg (which healed far too rapidly to be the result of anything but some form of magical intervention) he’d unwittingly and unwisely persisted in holding on to his sense of humanity. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t an animal, nothing like the heads mounted on the wall or the pelts draped over furniture. At base he was human, tail and fur and extra legs aside; he’d been born human, and once he discovered a cure for his, and the rest of the town’s transformation he’d be human again.

It became much easier to tolerate his circumstances once he stopped.

The hunter wanted a pet, so that’s what Dipper gave him: a loyal, devoted pet. He no longer pulled at his collar or strained against the leash or railed at being forced to sleep in the cage in the dark at night, outwardly accepting these things as if they were not only the norm, but he was content with them. He tagged along at the hunter’s heels once he was able, opting to sit next to him on the couch or on the floor next to the kitchen table willingly, occasionally asking questions in a shy voice that betrayed no ulterior motive (he hoped). He swallowed his disgust and leaned against him at times, allowing the sadistic fuck to stroke his ears the way he would a dog, torn between admitting to himself that physical contact that didn’t result in pain was  _wonderful_  and dreading the next time those fingers wound themselves through his hair and dragged him across the room.

A few times, thankfully only a few, the man presented him with a dish of food and ordered him to eat it,  _pet_ , with emphasis on the word that left no ambiguity.

Dipper lowered his head and ate, hoping the tears dripping onto the plate went unnoticed. That he managed to keep the meal down afterwards, every single time, was nothing short of a miracle.

And it worked, for the most part. The hunter relished the change, and their relationship slowly evolved into that of a treasured pet and its owner. Dipper was overjoyed, as much as he could still experience the emotion. It wasn’t ideal, the sight of his own face in the bathroom mirror made him sick to his stomach. But it was better than being beaten  _all the time_.

Not that the hunter didn’t have his moments.

While the prevalence of violence decreased, the intensity did not, nor the unpredictability of its occurrence. The hunter continued to torment him on a mostly arbitrary basis, although Dipper did notice that there did seem to be some sort of catalyst preceding the incidents: either a failed hunt or general frustration or the poor cervitaur simply being in the way at the wrong time.

Today was the latter, or perhaps a combination of factors: Dipper had made the grave mistake of falling asleep on the couch in the spot that the hunter tended to fume in on his worse days. He awakened to being unceremoniously tossed onto the floor, chain winding itself around his neck and constricting until his ability to breathe petered out altogether no matter how hard he clawed at the collar in a blind, half-conscious panic.

In contrast, the hunter casually seated himself in the recently occupied space, leaning forward with his hands on his knees so he could watch the spectacle with a faint yet chilling smile. After nearly a minute of choking the life out of him the chain loosened of its own accord, allowing Dipper to gasp for air in heaving breaths, struggling to fill his lungs.

The reprieve lasted for only a few seconds before it went taut again, once more cutting off his air supply.

The hunter’s words bored their way into his consciousness, past the sound of his heartbeat spiraling out of control and the strained hacking noise emitting from his likely swollen throat. “Pets don’t belong on the sofa, kid.”

This was unfair, obviously; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t slept on the couch a couple of times, and the bastard seemed to really like it when Dipper sat next to him, lowering his head obediently as if all he wanted was to be petted. He would have pointed this out if the edges of his field of vision weren’t beginning to grow hazy.

Just before he lost consciousness the chain around his neck loosened for good, clattering against the wooden slats below him. Dipper collapsed, with his legs crumpled beneath him and bile floating up in the back of his throat. Adding insult to injury, he dimly registered the hunter dragging him by the collar, hauling him onto the sofa to lie at his side. Gloved fingers scratched behind his ears lovingly as the cervitaur sobbed, well aware of his tears dampening the upholstery but incapable of stopping himself from doing so. The unfairness of the situation only served to make it worse. He hadn’t done anything to deserve the attack; he’d been good, right? So why? Why was he being punished for  _nothing_?

As if reading his mind, the hunter’s hand shifted to seize a clump of his matted hair, forcefully lifting his head so he could stare into the cervitaur’s eyes. Dipper wanted nothing more to escape being the target of that cold, unfeeling gaze, but he was paralyzed by sheer terror. “Apologize, pet.”

“I’m sorry,” Dipper whispered, ignoring the pain flaring up in his throat. The hand in his hair tightened its grip, and the cervitaur cried out before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Oh, I know.” The hunter leered at him; the eye not obscured by the eyepatch glittered with malice. “I just wanted to hear you beg.”

Dipper cringed as the hunter drew him closer, close enough for him to feel the man’s breath against his face. Somehow it was odorless, that of a human shell instead of a normally functioning human body or the fetid stench he’d expect of a monster. “You know, there are two kinds of creatures in this world, kid. Predators, monsters, those that cause fear, and the prey that cower beneath them. Guess which one you are.” The hand in his hair twisted uncomfortably. “Well?”

“…prey.”

“That’s right!” The hunter replied, cheerfully; he released his hold on the cervitaur’s hair in favor of resuming scratching behind his ears. The disparity in treatment left Dipper nauseous, unsure of whether to revel in the absence of pain or recoil from the pleasant sensation courtesy of his worst enemy. “You’re so smart. You see, prey animals like  _you_  exist to be consumed or controlled, one way or the other, at the hands of monsters like  _me_.” Dipper could see his teeth, the sharp points of canines gleaming with saliva that glistened in the light. “And you live in fear of it. That’s the difference between us.”

His other hand found its way beneath Dipper’s chin, preventing him from lowering his head to avoid the truth being levied upon him. “Fear defines your very existence. And I’m at the center of it.”

Dipper was out of tears. Instead he simply nodded in agreement, afraid of the retaliation that would follow if he didn’t. The gesture seemed to please the hunter, who settled back against the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction while his fingers alternated between running through his hair fondly and stroking the soft fur along the shell of his ears. “You always manage to cheer me up, kiddo." 

Dipper couldn’t say the same. He held himself rigid, barely breathing and doing his best to tune out the feeling of the hunter’s hand in his hair.

* * *

_Disgusting._  

Ever since his most recent escape attempt, Dipper had made the conscious decision to leave the collar alone. It was uncomfortable at best, and served as a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen. The only time he allowed himself to touch it was when bathing or attending to a wound in that area; he was careful to not be caught without it ringing his neck, although it was now obvious that its existence wouldn’t deter him from running away. The slight ache in his hindleg whenever rain approached did a good enough job of that.

As expected, the skin around his neck was an angry red and definitely likely to bruise. The chain hadn’t managed to break the skin, thankfully, but he cleaned the area with peroxide anyway, applying a bit of antibiotic cream just in case.

Then he stood there, staring at himself in the mirror.  _Pathetic_.

_"Apologize, pet. Eat it, pet. Get over here, pet. Sit, pet. Stay, pet.” Fuck you._   ** _Fuck you_**.

“I’m not your fucking pet,” he hissed, then immediately regretted speaking. He’d have to ask the hunter if he could make tea later on to help soothe his abused throat. So he said it in his head, over and over, a mantra that ran together into a jumbled stream of denial.  _I’m not your pet. I’m not your fucking pet. I’m not. Your. Pet._

And yet the unpleasant truth loomed over his head, causing him to grip the counter so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It was intended to be survival, a game, playing a role,  _acting_ , whatever the hell you wanted to call it, but how long did one have to act before they became the thing they spent all their time portraying? For all intents and purposes now, he  _was_  the hunter’s pet, a pathetic prey animal afraid of being hit or yelled at or locked in the darkness until he exhausted himself begging to be let out. The hunter was indeed a monster. But he was prey. Pathetic. So pathetic.

Instead of sorrow irritation flared up within his chest, rapidly progressing into an inferno that made it extremely difficult to avoid slamming his clenched fist into the mirror, slamming his back hooves against the wall,  _something_. This swell of rage wasn’t uncommon; he  _was_  a teenager, after all, and he spent a good bit of time frustrated for a variety of reasons, but now it felt wrong, somehow. Animalistic. Indulging the urge would only drive the wedge of dehumanization in further, but he desperately needed a release. Something to vent the miasma of negative emotions that bubbled beneath the surface; he needed to break something,  _anything_. He didn’t dare break anything in the house, though - nothing that could result in being punished again.

_“Fear defines your very existence_.” And maybe it was true. But how could he not fear the monster who could snuff the life from his body at the slightest provocation?

Dipper needed fresh air. Even with the collar off he felt as if he were suffocating. 

He took care to make sure the hunter was still snoring on the couch before lightly padding over to the front door and slipping out onto the porch. One of the benefits of pet status was being allowed out on the lawn unsupervised from time to time. Both he and the hunter knew that escape attempts were out of the question, whether due to fear or lack of ability. It was a privilege Dipper used sparingly, though - on one occasion the hunter returned from whatever the hell he did during the day to find him standing at the edge of the yard in a state of contemplation, misconstruing the situation as a potential escape attempt. Dipper didn’t want a reprisal of that particular incident. 

It was now fall. He could see the leaves starting to take on a variety of hues, and the merest hint of a chill lined the breeze that rustled through the grass. It meant he’d been gone for months, then. That wasn’t too long, in the grand scheme of things. He could envision his family now, still looking for him. Maybe Wendy went out in full wolf guise, scouring the woods for his trail. Mabel made a million ‘Missing’ posters, all of excellent quality, either drawn through her own hand or cobbled together through the extensive amount of photos she possessed of the two of them. It was difficult to imagine, but he somehow just  _knew_  that Stan would put tours on hold until some kind of news reached them, throwing himself into the hunt as well, feeding his parents a variety of finely-crafted lies about how well he and Mabel were doing. Maybe Pacifica had convinced her parents to throw some money at the search. They were friends, now, after all. She had to miss him, too. 

Thinking about his family and friends only added fuel to the fire, and with an extra spring in his step (not a pleasant one) he leapt off the porch, headed for a distant tree to the side of the lodge where there were no windows. Twigs crunched beneath his hooves, and his breathing became ragged as he charged the tree, lowering his head to gouge at the soft bark with his developing antlers and slamming his front hooves into it with enough force to send slivers of wood flying left and right. Again, and again, and again; he pretended the trunk was the hunter’s face, losing his head in the process of meting out the same treatment he’d been suffering for so very long. Months. Months away from his family, living with a monster. 

_SNAP_.

A jolt of agonizing pain ran throughout his skull, causing him to stumble backwards onto his haunches with a loud hiss. 

He’d broken an antler. Not completely, but about half of the left one. The velvet had thankfully peeled away a couple of weeks prior, but it was still tender. Dipper carefully picked himself up off the ground, reaching for the severed half of his antler with a feeling he had no words for. Emptiness, perhaps. 

A chattering sound rang out from overhead, and he glanced up to see a chunky grey squirrel perched on a branch, waving its tail above its head in a mocking manner. Stupid creature. Dipper rolled his eyes, turning the antler over in his hands gloomily. How was he going to explain this to the hunter? His antlers were pretty sturdy, and the only way for such a situation to have occurred required either him losing his head in a fit of frustration or snapping it himself, and he had no excuse for either of those things. His mood continued to plummet at the thought.

The chattering continued, and Dipper’s head shot up again, glaring at the idiot squirrel. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the squirrel was  _mocking_  him. It was probably only being territorial, but its bitching was beginning to annoy him. “Go away,” he murmured, returning to his own plight. 

Something clattered against his skull, ricocheting off of his broken antler and flying off into the distance. Dipper recoiled, seeking the source of the attack and finding it a few feet above. It was that squirrel again, challenging him to remain where he was. Perhaps this was the little shit’s tree that he’d just done a number on, but Dipper didn’t care, and the anger began to swell within him once more. “Go away,” he repeated, a little more forcefully, then leapt to the side as the squirrel chucked another nut at him. “I’m sorry about your tree, but cut it out!" 

The squirrel jumped to a lower branch, its complaints growing louder, and with that Dipper decided that he’d had enough abuse from the rest of the world. 

His aim had never been any good, but in that moment the desire to  _shut that fucking squirrel up_  guided his hand with more accuracy than ever before. The broken half of his antler caught the creature squarely in the chest, and the squirrel shrieked as it tumbled to the ground below. 

A foreign emotion took hold of the cervitaur, something that ranged between pride and shame and desire. It encompassed every other thought in his head, and, almost in a trance, he approached the squirrel lying next to the tree, stunned. It wasn’t dead, but from the look of it he’d managed to injure it somewhat. It looked up at him, with its beady black eyes, and although they lacked the ability to indicate pupil dilation he could tell from its body language that the creature was terrified. A prey animal, cowering in fear of a predator.  _Him_. 

"You should have left when you had the chance,” he informed the squirrel, coldly, in a voice he did not recognize as his own. The squirrel visibly shuddered, struggling to rise to its feet. Dipper halted its progress by placing a hoof atop its tail and pressing  _down,_ feeling tiny bones crunching beneath the pressure. The squirrel shrieked again. “You’re a prey animal, remember?”

_And for once, I’m a predator_. 

He raised his forehooves and slammed them against the squirrel’s skull, over and over and over and over and over  _and over_ until nothing remained but a pile of bloodied pulp and gore splattered throughout the grass and on his fur and on the nearby trunk. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and an expression of sick glee contorted his features.  _I’m a predator. I’m a predator. I’m not prey._

He paused, struggling to catch his breath, and the trance slowly dissipated. Dipper blinked, unaware of his surroundings for a moment. The afternoon light was overpowering, and he had a headache. There was something beneath his hooves, something wet and mushy, and he looked down, stiff with inexplicable dread. 

It took every bit of composure he had and then some to hold back the scream. 

“Oh no. Oh no no no no.” Dipper faltered, stumbling backwards until his scut brushed against one of the outer walls of the lodge. “Oh no, I’m sorry.”

The thing that had once been a squirrel did not respond. 

His hooves were covered in blood, there were droplets soaked into his fur, alongside what had to be brain matter; he made it to a nearby bush and vomited until there was nothing left. He’d killed an innocent creature, and for no reason aside from mild irritation, in the worst way he could imagine. Tears streamed from his eyes, and once he’d exhausted himself and the contents of his stomach he collapsed, curling up in the grass and weeping with his face in his arms. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.“ 


End file.
